This is my first attempt at writing Tim. This isn't my best work, but I decided to post it to see what you guys think.
I don't read the comics, so I apologize for OOC-ness. Well, Tim's OOC, but still. Any advice for writing the characters would be appreciated.
By the way, does anyone know how many years apart each of the Robins is from each other? (how many years apart are Jason and Dick, Jason and Tim, and Tim and Damian)
Disclaimer: I don't own Tim Drake, Dick Grayson, or any characters in the Batman comics/movies/etc.
When did he start feeling this way? When did he start wishing he would fall from the rooftops, or that he would be unable to block a fatal blow? When did he stop caring about himself, about his life?
Tim didn't even know when he first realized all of these things. He didn't know when any of these thoughts had begun. He didn't know how long he'd had these thoughts or how long it had been since he'd acknowledged them.
He didn't know how to deal with these thoughts. He tried working more, working less, sleeping more, sleeping less. He didn't know how to be happy, didn't know if he'd ever really been happy. He didn't know how to open up, how to ask for help – but he didn't need help, anyway, so he didn't talk to anyone. Not Dick. Definitely not Bruce. Everyone else was too busy moving forward in their exciting lives while he was stuck in his boring, useless, pathetic one.
There were two things he did know how to do, though. He knew how to make the thoughts go away, at least momentarily. He just took a knife to his leg, a lighter to his stomach, anything that would give him pain. The other thing he knew was how to permanently get rid of these thoughts: death. Tim's problem, though, was his fear. He was scared – a coward – too frightened to take his own life, even though he desperately wished for death.
He hoped for a fatal accident to occur while he was Robin, wished there would be a speeding car as he walked across the street as Tim. He got too reckless, too obvious, for Dick – the favorite, the perfect one, the caring older brother – pulled him aside one day to talk. Tim had tried to play it off, even while knowing Dick wouldn't believe him.
So he supposed he should have known that Dick would eventually find out about the cutting, the burning. Tim pressed the flat side of a batarang, hot from the flames of his lighter, into his shoulder, high enough so short sleeves would cover it, when Dick barged into his room. The horrified look on his face was almost comical, but Tim's embarrassment and shame and panic overwhelmed him. Dick grabbed the batarang and threw it across the room, shook Tim in an attempt to get answers, tears flowing down both boys' faces.
Tim couldn't help but scream and shout incomprehensible words to Dick. He dug his nails into his wrists, drawing tiny bits of blood. Dick pulled his arms apart, held them still, but Tim didn't want to hear Dick's words, didn't want to see Dick's face. Tim slammed his head against the wall, screaming and crying, "Make it stop! Leave me alone! Let me die! Make the thoughts stop!"
Dick slapped his face. Tim slumped against the wall in defeat. Dick hugged Tim. Tim should have known his brother would help, would listen, would never give up. But he didn't.